udoirs, our boulevards, an amphibian half-way
between a man and a woman--Maxime de Trailles is a singular being, fit
for anything, and good for nothing, quite as capable of perpetrating a
benefit as of planning a crime; sometimes base, sometimes noble, more
often bespattered with mire than besprinkled with blood, knowing more of
anxiety than of remorse, more concerned with his digestion than with any
mental process, shamming passion, feeling nothing. Maxime de Trailles is
a brilliant link between the hulks and the best society; he belongs to
the eminently intelligent class from which a Mirabeau, or a Pitt, or a
Richelieu springs at times, though it is more wont to produce Counts of
Horn, Fouquier-Tinvilles, and Coignards."

"Well," pursued Derville, when he had heard the Vicomtesse's brother to
the end, "I had heard a good deal about this individual from poor old
Goriot, a client of mine; and I had already been at some pains to avoid
the dangerous honor of his acquaintance, for I came across him sometimes
in society. Still, my chum was so pressing about this breakfast-party of
his that I could not well get out of it, unless I wished to earn a name
for squeamishness. Madame, you could hardly imagine what a bachelor's
breakfast-party is like. It means superb display and a studied
refinement seldom seen; the luxury of a miser when vanity leads him to
be sumptuous for a day.

"You are surprised as you enter the room at the neatness of the table,
dazzling by reason of its silver and crystal and linen damask. Life is
here in full bloom; the young fellows are graceful to behold; they smile
and talk in low, demure voices like so many brides; everything about
them looks girlish. Two hours later you might take the room for a
battlefield after the fight. Broken glasses, serviettes crumpled and
torn to rags lie strewn about among the nauseous-looking remnants of
food on the dishes. There is an uproar that stuns you, jesting toasts, a
fire of witticisms and bad jokes; faces are empurpled, eyes inflamed
and expressionless, unintentional confidences tell you the whole truth.
Bottles are smashed, and songs trolled out in the height of a diabolical
racket; men call each other out, hang on each other's necks, or fall
to fisticuffs; the room is full of a horrid, close scent made up of a
hundred odors, and noise enough for a hundred voices. No one has any
notion of what he is eating or drinking or saying. Some are depressed,
others babble